He’s standing there on Platform 5 of London Bridge station. He always is. Always in the same spot, always in the same outfit, always staring at me, always. And I’m always here, watching him.
We started forty years ago. Little has happened since. Every day we are here, staring.
I know his eyes.
They’re dark blue and jealous and bitter. I tried to decipher what had happened to make them once, but their glare intensified and I was scared so I backed down.